


Soul-Time

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: BDSM Scene, Canon Compliant, Divorce, Drabble Sequence, Drama, Dubious Consent, Explicit Language, F/M, First Time, Forced Bonding, HP: EWE, Het and Slash, Infidelity, M/M, Non-Linear Narrative
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-23
Updated: 2013-04-23
Packaged: 2018-01-26 20:10:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1700996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Magic--like love--does not always do what we expect.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Soul-Time

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Deutsch available: [Soul-Time - Seelenzeit](https://archiveofourown.org/works/8498155) by [MissJinx](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MissJinx/pseuds/MissJinx)



> Originally posted April 23rd 2013 at HP Fandom. Betaed by GhostxWriter, and edited upon re-posting here. 
> 
> Read the warnings, people. Also, while it says "canon-compliant" and "infidelity" up there, there shall be no Ginny-bashing within this fic. 'Kay? Kay. Now that we've got that sorted . . . 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don't own 'em, mores the pity.

Magic is a funny thing, sometimes. Often. Harry had always known—well, he’d known from the time he was eleven, anyway—that it could change his life in dramatic, unpredictable ways. For him, it had always been like that. Changes caused by magic had always been unimaginably enormous; his life thrown off-kilter suddenly, unexpectedly.   
  
His parents’ deaths. Learning he was a wizard. Losing Sirius. Watching Cedric die. Dumbledore’s death. The Horcrux hunt. The Battle of Hogwarts. Big and sudden, those changes.   
  
But nothing had ever happened like this. This, he hadn’t been prepared for. This he _couldn’t_ have prepared for.   
  


***

  
  
Harry could feel it, and it was driving him mad. It was getting worse. This wasn’t something he could ignore. Well . . . he couldn’t ignore it _anymore_ at least.   
  
Perhaps it was more accurate to say that he couldn’t _hide_ it anymore.   
  
Hermione was giving him worried looks when she thought he wasn’t looking. Ron was talking louder and more often, almost babbling. Harry had a freestanding invitation to dinner with his best friends. Molly was telling him to visit her at the Burrow. Head Auror Robards asked if he needed time off.   
  
But the worst was Ginny.   
  


***

  
  
Harry felt teeth sink into his flesh, felt his skin give way and his blood well, and couldn’t hold back a moan. His wrists were held in the unyielding grip of shackles, his cock in the grip of the man above him. The man who had made floggers dance across Harry’s skin, who had laid a score of leather kisses on Harry’s body that raised welts and left him needy.   
  
And as the welts started trickling blood, as the teeth set firmly in his shoulder did the same, Harry felt the tension drain away. He shuddered, went limp. He came.   
  


***

  
  
Magic wasn’t supposed to be like this. Do this. Magic was supposed to be complicated, brain-knotting potions and foolish wand-waving and flashes of spell-light that would either hit him and change everything, or would miss and become insignificant. _That_ was magic; not this.   
  
Magic wasn’t supposed to lie dormant for years, only to awake slowly and begin a lazy, undetectable crawl through his veins. Magic was supposed to be powerful; an agony to be endured or a beautiful, healing relief.   
  
Not this. It wasn’t supposed to creep up so slowly that he didn’t notice it was burying him. Killing him.   
  


***

  
  
He had tried, so hard. It wasn’t enough. He tried harder.   
  
But no matter what he did, what potion or Muggle medication or trick he tried, he couldn’t do it. He couldn’t get hard. He tried to please his wife anyway. He didn’t know what good it did, but he had to try.   
  
But what she didn’t know— _couldn’t_ know—was that it was torture. Every touch of her skin was a burn, every brush of her lips the drag of broken glass. Going down was agony, her flavour on his tongue like a mouthful of acid.   
  
He stopped trying.   
  


***

  
  
Eventually, Harry agreed to go. St. Mungo’s was his only hope.   
  
The magic had crawled through every vein, every artery. What had started as tingling was now utterly unbearable;: tingling had become itching and then burning and then searing. His inability to concentrate had turned into buzzing in his skull, and then, finally, splitting migraines. He couldn’t function anymore, couldn’t pretend that nothing was wrong when he was holding screams behind his teeth.   
  
The Healers went over his case with a fine-toothed comb, but couldn’t find a cause. They gave him pain-killing potions and sent him home. Ginny was furious.  
  


***

  
  
The first time had been an accident. One that Harry swore would never happen again.   
  
He’d been working. Ginny wasn’t pleased when he worked late, but he couldn’t help it tonight. He was walking through the Ministry, ready to go home. He brushed past someone, and then he had to stop, leaning against a wall as desire overpowered him.   
  
He closed his eyes, panting. Then, a tongue invaded his mouth and a hand worked its way into his trousers; suddenly, a missing part of him was returned and Harry didn’t care _who_ had returned it.   
  
Until he opened his eyes.   
  


***

  
  
He’d ended up at St. Mungo’s a second time by accident. Accidental overdose, that is.   
  
The pain-killing potions weren’t killing the pain. So Harry had taken more. Too much.  
  
It had been luck that put Harry in the bed next to him. When close proximity stopped the pain, the Healers looked deeper, called a specialist. Harry started waking to find that he had climbed into the other’s bed. Harry always got up—he was married. They’d both agreed that _that_ wouldn’t happen again.   
  
Then the Healers found the answer. “Soul-bond,” they said.   
  
“Like fuck it is. Look again,” Harry spat.  
  


***

  
  
When he opened his eyes and saw those of Draco Malfoy staring back at him, he froze.   
  
But then that mouth descended again, and all he could do was moan. When the kiss broke, he dropped to his knees, tearing at Malfoy’s clothing. He unbuttoned the crisp white shirt, kissing and licking at the skin of Malfoy’s abs, one hand massaging his cock through the tailored grey trousers. Malfoy was beautiful when he came.   
  
Harry should have been horrified. Instead, as the ex-Slytherin hauled Harry off his knees and into his arms, it just felt right. Like he was home.   
  


***

  
  
Ginny hadn’t agreed to the divorce. She hadn’t needed to. Legally, their marriage was dissolved when the Healers discovered the soul-bond.   
  
She came to visit him in St. Mungo’s, crying. She knew what a soul-bond meant. Knew—finally—that it wasn’t her fault they’d fallen apart.   
  
Harry reached out to take her hand. He hissed at the contact, pulled back. He stared at his hand, expecting to see blood. There was none; only pain. He looked up at her, took her hand again. He held his breath against the burn.   
  
Draco covered Harry’s hand with his, and the pain stopped.   
  


***

  
  
The first time Harry tasted freedom, he thought he would die. In the very best way possible.   
  
Draco had pinned him to the wall, had finally lost patience waiting for Harry to come to him willingly. Instead, driven nearly mad, he had simply taken what was his right.   
  
Harry had been forced to open, to cling to Draco or fall. When Draco vanished their clothing, he decided falling was preferable. Draco hadn’t let him.   
  
Instead, he’d murmured a series of spells, and then slowly pushed inside. Harry’s eyes shut, something singing inside him as Draco thrust, whispering against his skin.   
  


***

  
  
The Healers had looked again, but they returned with the same answer. “It’s a soul-bond, Mr. Potter. There’s nothing that can break it,” they had insisted gently.   
  
Harry had snarled wordlessly.   
  
Draco was more articulate. “Do you have any idea how or when it formed? What triggered it?”   
  
The specialist had shaken her head. “There’s no way to tell, unfortunately. Soul-time is . . . different than the way we’re used to thinking about time. For all we know, you two could’ve had a past life, one in which you bound your souls.”   
  
“Reincarnation? Is that possible?” Draco asked.   
  
“It’s rare,” she admitted.   
  


***

  
  
It had been a strange night; much too cold for midsummer.   
  
Times were dark, and desperate. The old adage held true; so two mothers met, in the silent hours of the night, to take desperate measures. When the ritual was complete, they looked away from their sleeping infants. Emerald eyes met ice-blue, their expressions mirrored.   
  
“You’re sure?”   
  
“I can’t be allowed to remember. It isn’t safe.”   
  
“You trust me to do it?”   
  
“You’ve always been gifted in Charms.”   
  
A flash then, a single memory of the night surviving. She took the secret to her grave.   
  
But their children would live. 


End file.
